All I Loved, I Loved Alone
by Estoma
Summary: The door opens but once a year. When it does, teachers and students alike enter with reverence. Gift for April, and also cover image by April.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's note: For April, on her one year anniversary, because she is my favourite muse. Expect half a dozen chapters, though when I write for April, it always seems to take on a life of it's own, so you never know how long this might be. Title taken from Edgar Allan Poe.**

**Beta-ed by Project Team Beta. **

The fourth floor corridor, on the cold southern side was always quiet. No hurrying footsteps of students, running late for class, ever echoed off the stone. No relieved chatter after a test ever bounced off the thick walls. Inkpots were not dropped from inattentive fingers, and enchanted paper airplanes did not disturb the stale air, shouting their crude insults and jokes.

The portraits that hung there were coated in dust. Their once gilt frames were covered in grime so set it would never come off, even with the strongest scouring spell. It filled in the patterns of flowers and cherubs on the frames until they were a uniform brown and grey. Cobwebs sometimes spanned the width of the frame, but the occupants did not care.

A few of the more adventurous figures went visiting friends, and spent most of their time there, in other parts of the castle, where it bustled with life and breath and snatches of conversation. Some went to the portraits in the great hall, where they could watch and speculate over the terrified new students at the sorting, with their trembling knees and sweaty palms. Many of the portraits there placed wagers on which house each student would go to. Some of the older ones claimed they could tell with a single glance if a student would be a bold and arrogant Gryffindor or a gentle Hufflepuff. It was harder to differentiate the quiet cunning of Slytherin from the fierce intelligence of Ravenclaw.

Others visited the common rooms, where life was more than evident. They smiled benignly over students challenging one another to a game of Gobstones, or offered help formulating the introduction to an essay discussing the benefits of potions over spells for transfigurations.

For the most part though, the portraits placed in the lifeless corridor were old. They had grown jaded over the centuries since Hogwarts was founded, watching students argue over the pettiest things, like who owned a pet toad, or who screamed the loudest when they found a boggart sheltering behind a tapestry. Their ears were tired of hearing the words 'mudblood' and 'blood traitor' thrown around as if they were nothing. In the cold south corridor, they rested peacefully, sleeping away most of their days and nights.

Even the few brave mice that dared venture into the castle despite the dozens of cats that lived there were quiet in the corridor. Their little feet barely skittered on the stone and they rarely squeaked. They would come out during the day though, for few torches were illuminated and the corridor lacked windows. It was trapped in a perpetual twilight.

At the end of the corridor, past a hundred yards of sleeping portraits, was a door. There was little to differentiate it from any other door in the castle; it was oak, with four panels, and the grain seemed to glow softly in the dim light. Strangely though, the door was free of dust. It looked as if someone had given it a loving polish, taking hours to buff and smooth the grain and the knots in the wood until it was a burnished honey.

In front of the door stood a suit of armour. In the near dark, it seemed to loom up suddenly, though of course it did not move. It was made of good steel, as was the sword and shield held in the gauntlets. The device on the shield was an unusual one, yet seemed fitting and elegant, enamelled onto the metal in heraldic fashion. It was a red squirrel, and the colour of the fur seemed to glow like the door did in the lack of light. It was stretched out, as if leaping for a tree branch, and looking at it, you couldn't help but know it would not fall. Curiously, like the door, the suit of armour was free of dust and the breastplate shone as if a squire had spent the cruel hours before dawn polishing it, that his knight might ride in the joust that morning.

So long was the naked sword, with its point resting on the stone floor, that the pommel came up to the knight's chest. The gauntlets rested upon it, keeping it in place. Curiously, there was one thing to mar the knight's appearance; a rough dent, about half the size of a fist in his shield. A section of the enamel had flaked off, taking the squirrel's foot, and a bit of the red and blue that it was quartered on. The enamel around it was bubbled and cracked, as if it had been held under a flame for some time.

Though it was like any other suit of armour in the castle, perhaps even a little less flashy than some, it managed to convey the feeling of watchfulness. With the visor down, and the gauntlets resting on the sword the way real hands would do, it was not hard to imagine that there was a man inside, carrying out his sworn duty to defend some great treasure.

This feeling of watchfulness was increased by the knight's proximity to the door, and the thick padlock that hung from the latch. It was made of bronze, burnished to a deep glow and the keyhole in it was a simple shape. It was nearly as big as a fist.

There were only two reasons that anyone visited the south corridor. There is, I am sure you know, a strange fascination for a locked door. For why would a door be locked unless there was something behind it worth seeing? Students, and even a few teachers over the years, had made their way to the corridor, their footsteps raising puffs of dust, to try to open the door. None had been successful. First they tried simple spells; _alohomora_, and the like. After that, they experimented with more complicated incantations, but to no avail.

So, the door stood locked, guarded by the brooding suit of armour, and the corridor remained silent except for one day a year, on the 11th of January, when that all changed.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's note: At this stage, expect a chapter a fortnight. Beta-ed by by Project Team Beta.**

Outside the castle, the sun shone fitfully. It made a valiant effort to break through the grey clouds. Earlier, they had been heavy with snow and ice, coloured a dark grey, with hints of purple and deep, dangerous green at their hearts. During the night they had released their load of snow down on the castle and grounds and had retreated to higher altitudes to allow the sun a few hours of dominance.

While the winter sun lacked power, it did cast a friendly light over the castle and the snowy grounds. It was enough to lift the hearts of most of those who had stayed over the Christmas break. Those children generally needed their spirits lifted.

Shining down in thin rays, the sunlight picked out the different colors in the snow. At first glance, it was a pure, pristine white, but a closer look revealed a multitude of color. Near the front steps, leading down from the entrance hall, the snow was trodden down, and there it had taken on a grey-brown hue from the dust and dirt on the shoes of students.

In a few places where the sun had begun to melt it a little, the snow revealed hints of soft blues, a dozen different shades. And where it lay over the glass roof of the greenhouses, it was just thin enough for a dash of color from the plants within to be seen through it. The vibrant pink of the Venomous Tentacula could just be made out through the thin, snowy covering.

It was not just the greenhouses that were covered in snow. Hagrid's quaint, wooden hut looked like a postcard from the Swiss Alps, with the dark evergreens of the Forbidden Forest behind it. Snow clung to their branches, but deeper within the forest, where the trees grew thick and tangled, the ground was completely clear.

The castle too had received a good dusting of powdery snow. It had built up in drifts, driven against the walls by the wind in the night. On the many roofs of the castle, it piled up where the surface was flat enough. Little clung to the steep turrets of the four main towers. Some of gargoyles that ringed the Astronomy Tower looked almost comical, with their hats and capes of white. Though, the fangs and the snarls could not be hidden quite so easily.

Within the castle, despite there being few students remaining for the Christmas break, fires burnt merrily in every occupied room. The Great Hall's hearths burnt as brightly as if the whole student population was there to enjoy them, and the same was true for the common rooms. But the corridors, cold at the best of times, were icy. The torches did not provide any noticeable warmth, and when students were travelling down to the Great Hall for meals, they went at a smart pace, nearly a jog. Teachers of course, carried around a little flame with them, balanced on the palm of their hand, or tucked in a jar for convenience. Still, their breath came out white and smoky and made patterns in the air as it drifted away.

If the well-used corridors were cold, it was nothing compared to the south side. The portraits and suit of armor did not feel it of course, but the mice shivered together in their nests of stolen scraps of fabric, and considered braving a more lively and warm part of the castle.

While it had been quiet before, it was now as silent as a grave. During the school term, sometimes, faint voices would float along on the air and make their way to the south corridor. There was not even that slight disturbance of the silence now.

Yet, it had not always been that way. Sixty years ago, the corridor was as bustling as any other in the castle. Students hurried along it, feet slapping the stone floors, calling and laughing to one another, and hoping their teacher would be late to class. There were a dozen classrooms opening from the left hand side of the corridor. Their doors were similar oak to that at the very end of the passage, but now they stood ajar, revealing rows of empty seats, and only chalk dust on the blackboards.

Once, there were transfiguration classes, and the students could be heard frustratedly trying to correct their pronunciation, as they glared at the tortoise that still had a shell suspiciously like the china of a teapot. Or else they might let out a short exclamation of pride when their raven turned into a perfect silver goblet, suitable to be placed on the Queen's table.

Charms classes took place too, and those were the noisiest. There was often heard the thud of small objects flying across the room at high speeds, or the frightened shriek of a student as they saw a missile coming at their head. Occasionally, there was the heavier thump when a desk or a chair was unintentionally charmed to sail across to the other side of the room.

Around sixty years ago, that began to change. At first, there was a presence in the air that nobody could quite identify. Maybe it was a slight drop in the temperature, even though the house elves were told to bank the fires in the classrooms. Perhaps it was the way that small items began to go missing. Chalk, quills, scraps of parchment, all seemed to disappear when someone turned their back.

Then there were the noises. Initially, they were quiet. There was the rasping sound of metal being scraped across stone, as if someone was sharpening a knife. When the suit of armor was examined, there seemed nothing unusual about it, though, its sword was very sharp. It was reasoned that the good steel had simply not dulled over the years since it had been placed in the corridor.

That wasn't the only noise though. Occasionally there would be the sound of metal footsteps, as if someone were pacing, but again, the suit of armor was never seen to move, and it was thoroughly checked to make sure there was no poltergeist hiding inside it.

It was put down to Peeves, the castle's renegade ghost. That was until he was observed to be smashing a chandelier in the trophy room at the same time as Professor Dumbledore noticed his chalk missing for the second time that transfiguration lesson.

The worst sound, far more frightening than the sharpening knife and the whetstone, was the crying. That was when they knew for sure that Peeves was not involved. It was a young woman, crying with utter hopelessness, as if nothing could ever be good again. It seemed to come from within the walls.

And then there were the messages. At first, they were written in chalk on the blackboards, but soon, they were scratched into the very stone walls, as if by fingernails as sharp as knives: 'You are not welcome. Let me grieve.' While the teachers did their best to erase the messages before the students could see them, they were seen, and soon the first and second years came to classes trembling and could not concentrate.

Finally, the suit of armor that had previously stood at the join where the south corridor intersected the main wing, moved to the very end. It stood in front of a door, as if on guard. Behind the door was a room, which had simply been a storage place for old desks and chairs and a few crumbled statues. But now, there was a thick padlock on it, and even Filch didn't have the key. That was when the classes were moved to friendlier parts of the castle.

Dippet, the headmaster, called for the Bloody Barron; the head of the ghosts. He came, with his clanking chains and hovered before the door. Dippet and Dumbledore waited, while he faded through the locked door, that they themselves could not open, though they had certainly tried. He returned only a moment later, looking as if he had been badly frightened himself.

"Aye, it is a ghost's work," he said. "'Tis not our place to intervene."


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's note: Beta'd by Project Team Beta. **

The winter after the corridor was closed was a fierce one. Outside the ancient castle, a storm raged. The clouds that had retreated during the day returned from higher altitudes, carrying their load of ice and snow. They were eager to release their burdens and did so brutally.

No gentle snowflakes were seen, like delicate five pointed stars, each unique. Instead, the snow formed stinging bullets and it was hurled with malice. It did not so much fall as was driven diagonally against the castle walls by the fierce wind.

Tonight, the wind had a strong voice. There was no gentle whisper, like on a lazy summer afternoon when it would meander over the castle grounds. It would make light ripples on the Black Lake, and stir tendrils of hair from the flushed faces of students as they sweated through their lessons in the stuffy classrooms.

Nor did it have the cheeky tone of the brisk, autumn wind. During the intermediate season, the wind was playful and frisky, and loved nothing better than to stir the leaves into drifts and then scatter them everywhere a moment later, like a child at play. It would cast the leaves sky high, and they would be bright red and orange against the rather dull grey. A moment before they fell back to the ground the wind would snatch the leaves up again to continue the game. It was also fond of tugging at scarves, and plaits and anything that it could cause mischief with. It laughed as students and teachers alike would try to restrain their flapping robes.

The voice of the wind in spring was different again. Then, it was as changeable as the season itself. One moment, the wind would drop to a whisper, and all would smile and talk of the upcoming summer, but it was not always so gentle. In the next hour, it might rise again and swirl around the trees, cutting the delicate new cherry blossoms to shreds, and littering the ground with the bruised petals.

But tonight the wind had on its winter voice. It howled and screamed shrilly as it found the narrow gaps between the stones that made up the castle's structure. Crying out angrily, the wind snatched handfuls of snow to beat against the windows. Desperately, it searched for a way inside so that it might swirl through the Great Hall and put out each and every one of the enchanted candles and torches so the castle would be plunged into cold darkness.

As it curled around the highest turrets, it was shrill and its cry was furious. Occasionally, when the wind came at a particular angle, the pitch changed and it sounded like a woman wailing. At least, all in the castle thought and hoped the noise was merely the wind. Everyone moved a little closer to the fires when they heard the sound.

Though the wind and snow did their best to penetrate the castle, it stood steadfast. Hogwarts had stoically endured thousands of storms and had lived through worse ordeals. It had stood strong through the English Civil War, had seen knights ride away on crusade, and had just survived the bombings of WWII.

The castle was a dark bulk against the flying, white snow. Lighted windows made small points of reference in the black night. Gryffindor and Ravenclaw's towers were highlighted like beacons on a watchtower, and on the lower level was the warm glow that revealed the kitchens and the Hufflepuff common room, so like a badger's sett. The Slytherin common room, deep in the dungeons, could not be identified. It was, at least, well protected from the wind.

The Great Hall was illuminated the most brightly. It was marked by a row of tall, arched windows and a snatch of warm colour could be seen from within. The chatter that would usually be heard was drowned out entirely by the howling wind.

Inside the Great Hall, the scene could not be more different to the storm outside. The four long tables were emptier than usual, and there were even unoccupied places at the teachers' table. Professor Flitwick's place next to Hagrid was vacant; he had gone to spend Christmas with his children, and come Christmas morning he would delight them by enchanting their dolls into a rustic nativity. Dippet's seat too was empty, though the aging headmaster preferred his own company more and more often these days.

Less than a quarter of the students remained. Most of those who stayed were fifth and seventh years who were anxious about their upcoming OWLs and NEWTs. Since so few students remained, they drew together, up the ends furthest from the teachers' table so they could laugh and joke. Perhaps they were nostalgic about the upcoming Christmas day and wished to emulate the crowded dinner table that was part of nearly every family's holiday celebrations.

Ravenclaw's table had the most students remaining, for as a house, they prized their intelligence, and scores were always compared hotly. But there was one of their number missing.

The boy's friends supposed he was sick in bed, though none really cared enough to check if behind the drawn curtains of his four-poster there really was an ailing child. If they had cared to check, it would have been quickly noticed that young Robert Mather was missing.

Casting furtive glances over his shoulder, the boy gripped his wand tightly in his hand, turning his knuckles white. There was nothing remarkable to set Robert apart from his fellows; his features were average, his manner normal and his grades were to be expected of a fifth year Ravenclaw.

Perhaps the only slight distinction the boy possessed was that his mother was a Muggle. It was not really that unusual, though in the 1940s, the movement towards accepting Muggles was only just taking off. Still, it wasn't that strange that his mother was a receptionist for a large, muggle law firm yet it was enough for Robert to feel that he was a cut below the rest.

That was why he searched out the door. Why, he reasoned, would a door be locked if there were not something of great importance behind it? Something so important must be valuable, or powerful. Robert had been researching spells ever since the door was locked and the south corridor evacuated, last year. He heard the rumours that there was a ghost, but he knew the ghosts of the castle did not harm the students; the worst was Peeves, and all he was liable to do was make chalk fly around the room.

Puffs of dust rose at his footsteps and hovered in the air, caught in the beam of his lighted wand. Robert's breath formed misty shapes, nearly as solid in appearance as a Patronus, and if he had been a more imaginative child, he may have found something sinister in the pale, twisting wraith-shapes.

There was no light in the corridor, save the wand's wavering glow. It cast shadows and the patch of pure brightness was very small. On the edge of sight were tall picture frames. Most were empty, and those whose occupants were present showed them dozing, leaning against the side of the frame, or sprawled in a chair if they were lucky enough to be painted with one.

This was not the first time the boy had come to the south corridor, but it was the first time he had come at night. During the day it had merely looked lonely and dusty. But in the dark it was something else entirely.

It was a hundred yards to the end, past the slumbering portraits, but Robert's steps were shorter, hesitant and he misjudged the distance. When his wand light reflected off something tall ahead and he caught a glance of naked steel, he stepped back and his heel caught on the edge of his robe.

With a muffled curse, Robert stumbled back and the wand slipped from his fingers, rolling towards the metal feet of the suit of armour. The shadows were all confused and the light was cast on a strange angle. The knight loomed out of the dark, taller than life, and his shadow cast on the wall was monstrous.

For a moment, it seemed the sword was raised for a killing blow, as if the knight were facing an opponent on the field, or perhaps a heathen in the holy crusade. Robert scrambled back on his hands and knees, breathing heavily until his back hit the wall.

As the hairs at the back of his neck prickled, he turned and he looked up into a fearsome face with wide, staring eyes and long fingers, twisted and grasping. This time, he screamed, and the sound echoed off the walls and came back at him from a dozen different angles.

"Stop your foul racket," the figure said, revealing a mouth full of little, pointed teeth. Robert took several deep breaths as he realised it was only a painting of a goblin that he had disturbed from sleep. He mumbled an apology and got to his feet. But when he made to retrieve his wand, it took two tries to gather the nerve to get so close to the bared sword.

Holding his wand aloft, the boy let the light play over the door and the suit of armour. Sir Squirrel, the students called it, for the device on its shield. It had been easy to laugh at the name, in the warm, fire-lit common room, but here in the dark the squirrel's beady eyes seemed to watch him. And there was something uncanny about the way the visor was down; he half-expected to see eyes looking out of the dark space.

Robert took a hesitant step forward, raising more dust, and he stopped to cough. Bent over, nearly double, Robert glanced back up at the suit of armour and choked, inhaling more. The bright red squirrel on the shield had changed its form. Its lithe body was twisted as if it were leaping right out of the shield, and its little claws were extended, like cruel hands.

With a gasp, the boy stumbled back again, wiping his streaming eyes on the sleeve of his robe. When he looked again, the squirrel appeared rampant like it should and he let out a shaky laugh, at the idea of being frightened by a painted rodent.

With a shake of his head, he planted both feet and gripped his wand steadily. The spell came easily to his lips, for he had been practicing for months on end.

_"Reducto!"_ As the word left his mouth, two things happened quite suddenly. First, his wand's light was extinguished as his concentration was disrupted. And second, with the slight scrape of metal on metal, the suit of armour moved.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's note: Beta'd by PTB.**

With a fluidity that belied that the suit of armour had not seen the care and attention of a squire for five hundred years, it moved its shield to defend the door. The spell that should have shattered the wood and sent pieces spinning to crash against the walls, only rocked the knight back on his metal feet. He leaned towards the door and righted himself.

On the shield was an ugly mark where the fine enamel had bubbled and cracked, and there was the foul smell of scorched paint. But it remained intact and the suit of armour was still on his feet. As if the knight who once wore the suit was still inside and duelling a fierce opponent, it turned and stepped forward, metal feet scraping the stone.

In the dark, the hapless student stumbled back, and his breathing was loud and panicked. In his fear, he forgot about his wand and it fell from his hand to clatter on the floor. It rolled away towards the wall as the knight advanced.

With one sharp movement, the shield came up, and for a moment Robert saw eye to eye with the fierce little device on it before the rim caught his temple. Like a dropped doll, he crumpled to the floor and did not move.

The suit of armour settled back into position by the door, resting the point of its sword on the floor and placing its gauntlets upon it. The shield, it settled back into place, and there were a few drops of blood along the rim. Dispassionately, the helmet tilted to look down upon the crumpled form at its feet. The boy's temple was bleeding, and the hair there was matted. In the dark, the knight could just make out his pale face.

Deep in its enchanted consciousness, something stirred. Old memories resurfaced, and it thought back to the years it had stood at the intersection of the north and south wings, and then before that, when it had been part of a private collection. Slowly, the memories went back further until it recalled the blood and the noise and the desperation of The Crusades and then even earlier.

_The sun shone brightly, for it was a fine autumn day. Grass, burnt a deep golden hue, covered the estate like a sea of precious metal. The hay that it would provide for the stock in winter was nearly as valuable. Further along, bounded by a rough stone wall, was an orchard. The apples hung in clusters like bright red gems among the foliage. _

_ A boy crouched at the edge of the wall, looking over his shoulder. He wore a tunic over silken hose, and good leather shoes encased his feet. His tunic was a deep blue, quartered with red, and a small device; a squirrel, rested on his left breast. _

_ As quick as the squirrel on his tunic, but perhaps a little less graceful, the boy scrambled over the wall, using the uneven stones to give him purchase. He dropped into the orchard and scampered through the trees, deeper in and out of sight of the manor house. _

_ Looking back over his shoulder often, he went deeper among the gnarled trunks, occasionally kicking a fallen apple so it bounced and disturbed the red and white chickens that pecked around the roots. They squawked and ruffled their feathers and the boy laughed. _

_ When he thought he had gone far enough, he whistled a quick three notes and waited. It wasn't long before a pale, grubby face appeared from the foliage of one of the trees. The new boy swung himself down and landed with a soft thump on the ground. He pulled an apple from his pocket and crunched into it loudly as juice dripped onto his chin. _

_ While the first boy's clothes were neat and well made, the second's contained rips and were smudged with dirt and manure from the fields. A long tear down his calf revealed his pale, skinny legs, like a young child's. But they both grinned as they plucked another apple each and sat down with their backs against the same tree. _

Slowly, the knight raised his naked sword, nearly invisible in the dark, but all he did was sheathe it at his waist with the ominous scrape of metal on leather. Bending slowly, he grasped the boy by the ankle and began to march back up the corridor, towards the faint light from the torches in the more habitable parts of the castle.

Dust collected on the prone figure of the boy being dragged, and there was a sound like a huge python scraping its scales on the floor. The knight's footsteps were steady and measured, as if he were pacing off the distance before a joust. The boy's robes pushed up, revealing his pale, childlike legs.

At the end of the corridor, a few torches were still burning where it intersected with the north wing. The knight released the unconscious child in a pool of light left by a torch and slowly turned around without another glance.

Quick, furtive movement behind him indicated one of the portraits at the end of the north wing was awake. A black-robed nun with her white wimple shook her sister awake and pointed to the prone figure near their portrait. The older gave her sister a quick shove and she disappeared outside the frame, to appear a few seconds later, running across a watercolour landscape, hitching her skirts up, on the way to the hospital wing. The knight's footsteps receded as it turned back down the south corridor.

The door was unchanged when the knight took up its place in front of it again. He settled the point of his sword on the floor and rested his gauntlets upon it once more as if nothing had happened. But after several minutes, the very faint sounds of the matron's running footsteps came from the entrance to the corridor. The knight dipped his helmet briefly as if he were pleased.

For several moments, it stood quite still. But after the faint sounds had faded, there was a breath of cool air that raised the dust off the floor and sent it swirling gently through the air. In the dark, it looked like thick smoke. The helmet turned towards it expectantly, and the hands shifted on the pommel of the sword to a more relaxed position.

A faint radiance spread from one of the door panels, reflecting off the polished armour. It lit the corridor with a friendlier glow than Robert's harsh wand light. The suit of armour turned around, waiting. It was not disappointed.

The radiance spread and pushed out of the door, first with thin tendrils then began to form into a shape something like a Patronus, but a little more like mist. In a few moments, the shifting image of a young woman stood in front of the knight and she tucked her short hair behind her ear in consternation.

"You know, Sir Conan, you really shouldn't have hurt the boy."


	5. Chapter 5

Christmas morning dawned bright and still. During the night, the storm had spent its wrath and now rested, gathering strength for another assault on the castle's walls. In the grey light of dawn, the snow piled into drifts against the walls took on strange shapes as it blended with the shadows. Dragons, serpents and unicorns could be seen, as well as stranger beasts, if one had the imagination.

Inside the castle all was still but for the furtive movements of the house elves as they stoked the fires in the common rooms and the Great Hall. It was also their task to place the gifts sent by families, and they did it with stealth and care before hurrying back to the kitchens. For the house elves, Christmas Day was celebrated by singing carols while they cooked breakfast for the remaining students and teachers.

Soon, the silence was shattered by the excited voices of the students and the shrill strains of 'deck the halls' that floated up from the kitchen. In all four houses the students reacted with equal glee at their gifts, though, they showed it differently. In the Slytherin common room, students unwrapped their presents and tucked them away quickly, to be enjoyed in private. The Hufflepuffs were quick to hand around and share their seeds, books, chocolates and hand knitted scarves, and compliment each other as they gathered by the wide, sandstone fireplace. Boasts were made and gifts compared haughtily in the Gryffindor tower, while Ravenclaws received many books and sensibly compared the merit of this title and that.

As the morning marched on and students set aside their gifts in favour of breakfast in the Great Hall, the corridors were filled with happy exclamations as well as the smell of warm toast and crisp bacon.

But neither the voices or the aromas reached the south corridor. The decorations that graced much of the castle were absent and silence still reigned for the most part. But not quite. The only sound that broke the tomb-like quiet was the rolling Latin syllables of 'gaudete'. Strong, true sounds rang from the suit of armour, and though they echoed slightly with the visor down, the impression gives was that the breastplate and helmet concealed a strong man with a great barrel chest and lungs that worked like bellows.

As the song finished on a long, rolling note, the sound of slow clapping echoed down the corridor. For a moment, it seemed as if the suit of armour dipped its helmet in embarrassment as it turned around to face the door.

"You have quite the voice, Sir Conan, you should sing more often." The speaker, the ghost, had faded through the door and into the corridor like mist. Shifting, the edges of her form were blurred, and looked almost like fog with a light shining through it, but not the yellow-orange glow of a headlight, but something gentler. She cast a silverly light around her, and it did not distort the shadows and twist them into fearful shapes, instead, it softened their edges. Unlike the other ghosts, her form was opaque. Even the great, Bloody Barron was transparent, and he did not look nearly so frightening when the war fireplace behind him could be seen through the blood and chains.

"I know no other songs, my lady."

With a toss of her short, loose hair that may have been dark in life, the young woman shook her head. "Drea will do."

"My lady, Drea," the knight lowered his head in a small bow. "Merry Christmas."

Instead of responding to the knight's well wishing, Drea's eyes shone with pearly tears. Holding her chin high, she tried to keep them at bay. "It's my first Christmas since…"

"Forgive me for mentioning it. I shall not speak or sing anymore lest I remind you again."

"No, no sing, please, if you want. It's just that Christmas without…without her….is so lonely."

Soon, the lusty strains of 'lirum lirum' were heard in Conan's strong bass. It woke the slumbering portraits, some of which grumbled and complained of the noise. But others, with a little more life left in them, hushed their fellows and tapped their feet against their frames, or nodded their head in time.

As the echoes died away the corridor seemed quieter than before, though it were not possible. The silence had a new, deeper quality to it. But Sir Conan hummed the last few bars of 'lirum lirum' to himself once more and relaxed his hands on the pommel of his sword.

Christmas in Chestershire county was always a merry affair-for the lordly knights and their families at least. Sir Conan remembered well, for the songs had stirred his memory. The high table in his father's hall seated his family and his father's advisors. As the eldest son, he sat by his father's right hand and was the second person to taste the goose that had been rubbed with fat and saffron until it was a deep, burnt orange. When it was cut by the server, stream fragrant with cinnamon and nutmeg rose from within.

The family, indeed, the whole household had attended church in the morning, but it had been a sombre affair, for the church had long banned carols to be sung during the service. But now, as the food was served, the minstrels took up their stringed instruments and carved flutes and regaled the family as they ate. He remembered eating so fast, he hardly tasted the rare delicacy of the saffron goose, so eager was he to take to the floor and join the minstrels in a song.

While the knight outside the door tapped his foot, and would have smiled if he could, at the memory of the dances and songs in his father's hall while the snow beat down outside, Drea was quiet. Her gaze sought out the ceiling as she tried to hold back her tears, nearly a solid white but there was no stopping them as they flowed down her pale cheeks.

Christmas used to be a crowded wooden table, with a dozen relatives, and no more room than was enough to set down a plate and a glass. Everyone bumped elbows, and their knees sometimes touched under the table but they jostled good naturedly and leaned back out of the way when someone needed to reach across the tarnished, silver gravy boat.

By the end of the meal of roast pork and apple sauce, crisp roast vegetables and rich, dark Christmas pudding, all the family would push their chairs back as much as they could and unbutton the top of their trousers and chuckle, resting their hands on their distended bellies. Last year, Drea laughed at her sister when there was a smear of brandy butter on her cheek, and groaned when she reached across the table for one of the handmade napkins to brush it away.

Now, Drea wrapped her arms around herself, and her silvery tears fell, dissipating like mist before they hit the floor.


	6. Chapter 6

In a rush of thick, white smoke that all but concealed the scarlet engine, the Hogwarts Express pulled into the station at Hogsmede. The bright pain on the body was nearly obscured by the exhalation of smoke and the train appeared insubstantial. But the shrill piping of the whistle marked it as real enough. With a clatter, prefects in their billowing robes and silver badges pinned proudly on the breast, opened the doors to each carriage and dropped down the steps. Behind them, students clustered in the hallways, clutching wands, cats, roads and any Christmas gifts they were particularly eager to show off.

Amid orders from the prefects to perform a last minute check of the compartments and frantic cries of students, such as 'Where's my book?" or "What about my sneakerscope?", the passengers disembarked. The platform, so deserted a moment ago, became confused riot of black robes and waving hands as students clamoured to find their friends and secure a carriage together for the short journey to the castle.

With no small deal of shouting from the prefects, the students were packed into the carriages and the doors closed, drowning out protests of, "But I don't want to be with a Slytherin!" and the obligatory reply, "Well you can work then, and it looks like snowing again." At an unheard signal, the carriages moved off, up the rutted driveway and passed through the wrought iron gates with their flanking statues. The winged boards with their fierce tusks did not look quite so intimidating with a good dusting of snow collecting on their heads and along their backs.

Inside the castle, the relative peace and quiet that had gathered during the Christmas break was shattered like a mirror dropped onto stone, as the students flooded the Great Hall for the feast to mark the return to classes. Their voices rang loud and cheerful and echoed in the huge space until they melded into a general buzz. Yet the peace and quiet that accumulated in the less used parts of the castle during the Christmas break, clung determinedly to the south corridor. Like thick ropes of a spider web, deep in the Forbidden Forest, it would not be brushed aside easily and nor would anyone try.

Slowly, the clamour did fade away as students found their way to their four-posters. In the towers, surrounded by flying snow, or down by the warm kitchens, or even in the dungeons below the Black Lake, they settled down and drew the covers up to their chins against the cold. Conversations were hushed and muffled. But even there, the soft sounds of breathing remained, and small, contented movements as the students got comfortable. Cats purred and kneaded their paws, in and out, against their owners' legs, else they leapt from the bed and nosed aside the curtains with a swish, to pad on velvet soft paws and see if the mice had grown bolder in their short absence.

Nothing stirred in the south corridor, not even the mice, for the January snows were puled outside and the freezing temperatures inside the castle sent them scurrying to shiver in their nests. Their small, frosty breaths made no sound, nor their sad exclamations as they thought longingly of the stoves that always blazed in the kitchens, guarded by cats who barely slept.

Around midnight, when the last student had finally dropped off to sleep, there was the whisper of movement in the corridor. The topmost panel of the honey oak door began to glow with a silvery sheen and the suit of armour turned its head slowly. The radiance grew rapidly until it sloughed free of the wood and shimmered, twisting to form a young woman. Her robes robes, now pale silver, would once have been black and they swept the floor lightly as she hovered a few inches above the ground.

"My lady-Drea, beg pardon," the helmet dipped and the knight brought a hand across his chest in a quick bow.

"Sir Conan," she nodded. "Do you know what day it is?"

"The eleventh day of January, I made it. Though, it is still dark night."

"The 11th of January, yes," Drea sighed and her pale hair swung forward to cover her face. "It's my birthday. I should be eighteen."

Turning gracefully like a swaying reed underwater, the ghost brushed her hand over the padlock on the door, and with a crack that echoed up the corridor and made the mice huddle closer in their nests, it opened. Drea pocketed the lock, for she was a poltergeist of sorts, and lifted the iron latch on the door.

"My lad, Drea?"

"Go on, have a look," she gestured slowly.

"You are certain?" Sir Conan asked with doubt in his voice.

"Yes, yes she would want at least one person to see," Drea whispered. She swallowed and her voice was thick with emotion.

At Conan's gentle push, the door swung open smoothly as if the hinges had been oiled only yesterday. Beyond it was a long room, more of a hallway in truth, yet the ceiling was as high as that in the Great Hall. Arched windows, frames carved in stone by masons long dead, graced on wall. Through the windows, a few stars could be seen, peeking through the cloud cover but most of the light came from the candle brackets, wrought iron with delicate traceries of leave and flowers. Unlike the corridor outside, no dust marred the surfaces or collected in the air. The air itself was fresh as if the windows had been thrown open this morning to let in the brisk winter wind.

Apart from the candle brackets, the doom was almost bare. In the far corner, placed beneath a window was something shrouded by a sheet. The shapeless fabric gave no clues to its form. Of the broken and unused furniture that once littered the room, there was no sign, not even scuff marks on the flagstones. The walls too were bare of any other decoration. Opposite the windows was only bare stone.

When Conan made to pull the door shut, Drea placed her hand on his arm. He did not feel the chill a mortal would have, at her ghostly touch.

"Leave it," she whispered, and pushed the door open, letting a little unaccustomed light spill into the corridor beyond it.

The dim light of the candles left much of the room locked in shadow but at the end furthest from the door, extra tapers had been placed and it was nearly as bright as day. Conan's footsteps rang on the stone floor and his sword tapped against his metal greave as he paced, slowly, the length of the room. Gliding silently beside the knight, Drea's passage contrasted with his measured tread, for she seemed to follow only as if she were dragged by an unseen force. She hovered by his elbow, but when he stopped before the extra candles, she tore herself away with a sigh of frustration.

Conan stopped before the candles, framing a single portrait. It was the room's sole decoration. The flickering candlelight burnished his breastplate as he tilted his head to the side like any art critic. If he had had a mouth with which to smile, he would have.

"This is your sister, is it not?"


End file.
